Generation Exhausted

Rain, rain, go away

The average work day in a home office should not include bailing.

I'm just saying.

Bella Linda

It's Lidna SureWould's birthday!

It's hard to believe that four years have passed since the advent of Club 32. Harder still to believe that I have known Linda since BEFORE that - since way back in the spring of 2000, to be exact.

Linda was one of my very first Internet friends, and I went to meet her in real life for the first time thinking that she might be one of those mythical axe murderers. She wasn't.

When we first met, I was struck by the fact that Linda spoke with a softer voice than anyone I'd ever met before. I was also in awe of how she knew just the right questions to ask, and how to listen to the answers, in order to get to know someone. I remember thinking that this person was BORN to be a reporter - lunch that day felt like an interview, but the GOOD I-really-want-to-know-about-you kind, not the why-are-you-being-so-nosy kind.

Since then, I have learned much, MUCH more from Linda than I'm sure she's ever learned from me. Although I did try to teach her how to cross the border without having a nervous breakdown. Linda has been busy since the day I met her, and possibly this has been her busiest year yet. I hope she takes some time today, on her thirty-sixth birthday, to give herself a big pat on the back for how much she's accomplished this past year. (grad school, yay!) She's an inspiration, and I'm very, VERY glad she's my friend.

Happy Birthday Linda!

Summering along

Here we go - the season's peak is passed, and the days are divided between wanting to "make the most of what's left" and wanting to start shopping for school supplies.

Things have been all squirrel-like here; lots of furniture rearranging and vacuuming neglected corners. My office is a pit, June's filing still awaits, so there's a busy few weeks ahead of me. All my chickens children have come home to roost from their various and sundry trips to cottages with friends and family, and once again we're almost caught up on the laundry.

That may ultimately be my epitaph:

Here Lies Shelley. She Was Almost Caught Up On The Laundry.

Last night, I took four pictures of the inside of my purse with my camera phone without knowing it. I'm walking along through frozen foods and hearing this little "clickyshutter" noise, and wondering if I'm losing my mind, but no - just taking pictures. Silly me.

And can someone tell me why it is against the law to kill skunks in this city, but perfectly acceptable to annihilate thousands of innocent grubs in the lawn that weren't bothering anyone? Something to think about. Here's hoping Pepe Le Pew moves on to greener pastures.

I hope he brought his own towel

Hubby decided not to take his midnight dip in the pool this evening. Seems there was a skunk sitting underneath the pool steps.

And I was having such a nice, quiet summer.

The Hope Chest

Regular readers (and really, are there any other kind around here?) will have noticed my mother's comments in the last entry about the hope chest.  It's partially in reference to a conversation we had around here recently about the cedar chest that currently sits in Oldest's bedroom.

Right around the time my age reached the double digits, I started thinking I'd like a hope chest. (I also spent a lot of time hoping for a chest, but that's another story) It was probably yet another one of those ideas I got from the books I read, the same books that led me to believe I should also be a top-notch teen sleuth, or that I should have a twin sister with whom I shared a red Mustang convertible, or that it would be nice to travel across the prairies in a covered wagon with Ma and Pa.

But regardless, I wanted a hope chest. I'd get my copy of Seventeen magazine every month, and see the ads for Lane cedar chests, and imagine which one would look absolutely perfect at the foot of my bed. When I'd flip through the Sears catalogue, furnishing my dream home in my head, I'd always include a cedar chest in each bedroom.

I imagined filling it gradually with delicate linens and lace doilies that I'd eventually bring into a fairy-tale marriage that included candle-lit dinners every night and angelic babies tucked into four-poster canopied cribs. The cedar chest would be akin to a treasure chest - in my mind's eye I'd lift the lid reverently, inahling the rich cedar fumes, and sort through the items within with a sense of awe and wonder.

Ha.

I eventually did get a cedar chest - like so many other things around here, it came as a cast-off from a family friend who'd passed away and whose household was being dismantled piece by piece. I'd been married a few years, and had two baby girls of my own. "I'll take it!" I insisted, lugging it home under the baleful glare of my husband, who wondered where, exactly, we were going to put it. After all, our bedrooms were 9' x 9', and any spare space in the living room was occupied by toddler trappings like Little Tykes kitchens and doll buggies.

It was a coffee table, for a while. At Christmas, it came in handy as an extra horizontal surface for my decorative village. And it was a good place to store the crystal bowl we'd gotten for a wedding present and never quite figured out the right occasion to use.

When Oldest moved into the new big bedroom in the basement, we put it in her room. How symbolic, I thought! What teenage girl, beginning her transition from child to adult, wouldn't like a hope chest, to begin her own process of gathering important things for a far-away future?

Turns out, my teenaged girl. It was a nice spot for her stereo, for a while, but she's never truly appreciated having this piece of furniture in her possession. And, as she continually reminds us, she's never getting married, or having children, so the romance of linens and doilies and candle-lit dinners is lost on her. The cedar chest will soon move back to the living room, where it will reside once again under the front window. At least I'll be able to put my village out at Christmas time.

It's another opportunity for me to remember that my darling girl is not me. Her hopes and dreams are equally as wonderful, and exciting, and important, but they are not mine - my daughter isn't my "do over."  As she moves into this next phase of her life - university and beyond - she will experience things in a way that is uniquely "her", and not Me, The Sequel. The things that are important to her may be different from the things that were important to me, but they are no less important, for all that. That's been harder to come to terms with than I would have thought, but we're working on it.

In the meantime, I've got a hope chest to move.